In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. “I’m six hundred and forty-eight, John, but guess how old I look? Fifteen. To call yourself ‘Alcide’! Your hair, your gestures, your voice, all mine! Oh, how dared you do it?” “You must not forget,” Anna said calmly, “that it is necessary for me also—to live. She had gained respect all about town with news of her fine marriage, and her reputation as a beauty was expanding. Terrific shouts were raised by the rabble, who threatened to tear Wild in pieces if he showed himself. ‘You knew her well, Miss Mary?’ Mrs Ibstock turned at the window.
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